Poetry as a child, I wrote of my thoughts,

And did not realize the destruction it wrought.

I saw the world as black and white,

With scarlet as its natural highlight.

I wrote of the red, the pain and suffering,

I did not realize I was uncovering,

I wrote of my father abandoning my family,

I wrote of missing a piece of my own identity,

I wrote how it hurt to be called fat,

By my own aunt, uncle and grandmother, at that.

I wrote what people expected of me,

And being silent in how miserable I’d be,

If I followed their dreams instead of my own,

But speaking against it would be heavily condoned.

Poetry started as a play pastime for me,

A lens of the world, snapshots of what I see.

But now it is an old friend of mine,

The kind I would recognize from behind.

But wouldn’t have the courage to say,

“Hello, remember back in the day?”

A poet is someone who can write unled,

Small words to compensate for hundreds unsaid.

So I would not label myself as one,

I have not built up more than I’ve undone.